And every demon wants
by SweetG
Summary: ... his pound of flesh. The first bruise is from a playful shove delivered by Scott. It rests just underneath his last left rib, yellowing with time. The flesh there feels tender to his touch, even though it doesn't outright hurt. When he takes his shirt off for lacrosse practice the first time after that he is self conscious. What if somebody notices? What if they bring it up?
1. Chapter 1

The first bruise is from a playful shove delivered by Scott. It rests just underneath his last left rib, yellowing with time. The flesh there feels tender to his touch, even though it doesn't outright hurt.

When he takes his shirt off for lacrosse practice the first time after that he is self conscious. What if somebody notices? What if they bring it up? What if they tell his dad?

He strips, and changes, and laughes the nerves away with a lovestruck Scott. And nothing else happens.

Nobody notices.

And Stiles? Feels a little stupid for worrying himself sick over something so minuscule.

The second one is from Derek. It covers all his lower back, and it hurts like a bi... Like a mothertrucker. He contorts himself in front of the bathroom mirror to catch a glimpse of it and it looks a mess of angry violet, sickly green and yellow, and a little blue. It looks almost as bad as it hurts.

Really, if Derek doesn't mature overnight or grows a humor sense or becomes a tolerant guy or something and stops freaking shoving him against things, it's gonna be the death of his lanky, wiry teenage self.

Lacrosse practice goes as always, however, nobody even staring twice at his injured back, or thinking twice before roughing him up in the field.

Well, it sucks a little more than most days. But he's a strong dude and all that.

Then comes the third one. And that one has 'Jackson is a jerk and has many, many anger management issues' written all over it. It looks as more of a... He doesn't know what, something more grotesque than a bruise. It covers almost the entire expanse of his arm. And it hurts. So. Freaking. Much.

So much that the first day he can't really move his arm without wincing pitifully and hissing under his breath. It's sheer luck that it was his left arm and not his right one and that nobody ever seems to pay attention.

How it happens? Well, he's not that sure. He remembers walking through the forest after a meeting at Derek's shallow excuse of a house with both Jackson and Scott (Lydia had stayed studying for a math test, under the guise of going shopping or whatever), cracking a joke about... What, really? It might've been about him, even. One of those self-deprecating jokes about being a pet to them or something.

Then, he remembers blacking out for a second or two and coming back to the feeling of his arm being crushed under Jackson's weight, and his 'just shut up for once, Stilinski'. And after that, Scott growling menacingly at Jackson for being a dick. And after that, Scott helping him to his feet.

He doesn't really get what happened. But he doesn't much care, either. Jackson had always been a dick and now he's a werewolf dick. That's all.

He doesn't do lacrosse practice for three days. Which sucks, but provides him with time to watch all the Star Wars saga again.

'It's all cool' he thinks, while his arm heals slowly but securely.

Then he thinks 'not so much', because after his third absence from practice Danny comes to his house, fidgetting nervously but attempting to feign bravery.

Stiles would've found it endearing (he does kind of have a thing for Danny, when he's not busy crushing on the train wreck that is Lydia), had it not been for the first words that left his mouth.

"If the sherrif's beating you up Stiles we can-"

That's as far as he gets before Stiles cracks up, completely losing his shit. Oh man, the thought of his dad ever laying a hand -or as much as his little pinky finger- on him, is just... what? What is the world coming up to? Never. Never ever. Not even when he'd been an unruly kid and given him every single reason to.

He promptly stops a minute later when Danny starts scowling at him. Which, wow, not scary at all after facing the Alpha and Scott and Jackson and Derek and Lydia that one time, but still wrong. Danny's never looked at him like that.

"Look Danny, I'm moved that you worry about me and all, but my dad? Is a big cuddly carebear. Loving man and dad and all that shiz. He'd never look at me the wrong way." A second's pause. "And, seriously, where did you get that idea from?"

Danny takes his left arm and pushes the sleeve of his shirt up until the bruises from Jackson can be seen as clear as day.

Oh. Oh, that's why.

"That's... I don't know what that is. I hadn't seen that 'till now. How weird, huh?" Shit, how can he still suck this much at keeping his mouth shut?

"I think we both know you suck at lying." Danny doesn't take his eyes from where they rest on the largest patch of color on his arm as he says that. The look on him makes Stiles' stomach turn unpleasantly. Maybe that's why a tiny piece of truth escapes him.

"It wasn't my father, dude. God, no, he would never. It was Jackson." Before he can conclude with a reassuring and admittedly stupid (and mostly also a lie) 'but it's all under control', Danny is frowning and leaving him to stand alone under the treshold, with only one crazy idea of where he could be going.

"Danny? Danny!" He shouts out, to no avail, to the other teen's retreating back.

Oops?

'Yeah, oops' his mind supplies the next day at school, when Jackson comes barrelling down the corridor, eyes firmly locked on his and blazing blue, hands in white fists. So, pretty much oops. Oops all the way, oops forever, oops from the soul.

Where the hell is Scott right now, anyway? Isn't it his best friend duty to save Stiles from certain death under the claws of an enraged beast? Isn't that like an unbreakable rule in the werewolf best friend handbook or something?

Apparently not.

Oh, well.

"Stilinski." Jackson looks livid, a snarling mess of newly turned werewolf and teenage hormones, and Stiles thinks dearfreakinggod what if he shifts, how will I explain that?

But Jackson doesn't. Jackson stops right in front of him (Stiles backs up against the cold metallic hardness of his locker), looks him right in the eye for what seems like an eternity, as if he were searching for something, and then-

"Show me your arm." He says, and it comes out forceful, but somehow... choked.

"Jackson, dude, you know I am my own man and won't suddenly obey your every command because you've developed a case of the furries, right? Even if you do ocasionally scare the crap out of me." His mouth spits out, without consent from his brain. Which, okay, occurs to him all the time so it isn't remotely surprising (he's pretty sure his lack of a brain to mouth filter will be the death of him). What is surprising is the heartfelt whine that Jackson lets out after that; it's a low enough sound that the other people going around don't stop and stare at them more than they are already doing, but loud enough for his very human ears to pick up on.

What makes his mouth hang open for a few seconds in a cartoonish manner, however, is the pitiful 'please' that Jackson drops after, looking at him with moist, sad eyes.

"Okay, okay. " He relents, feeling awkward about the sudden display of emotion. "But not here. Later, after class."

The bell rings, a shrill validating signal.

"That's..." Jackson's voice sounds off, small, fragile. A quiet gasp, practically. Completely unlike Jackson's usual voice. Stiles fidgets, wanting to cover his arm up again. Having to pay attention to his fading bruises makes him feel... Strange. Ish.

(Weak, he doesn't want to say. Powerless, even.)

Jackson moves his hand, reaching out to the healing skin.

"Dude, that's a sensitive area right now, so no touching."

Jackson's hand drops instantly.

"I'm sorry." The words sound strained, stretched thin over his guilt; it oozes out of him, the guilt, Stiles doesn't need a werenose or a wereanything to smell it, sense it, see it. That thought makes him uncomfortable.

What makes the moment ten thousand times more uncomfortable is how Jackson holds his hands behind his back and reclines himself until he can lick over the worst of the green-yellow patches on his skin.

Licking. And Jackson. In the same sentence. As in 'Jackson licking his arm'.

Oh God. Oh dear merciful God, Stiles is so not ready for this to be his life.


	2. Chapter 2

He expects Jackson to threaten him in not really uncertain terms with bodily harm if he tells anyone about his sudden lickitongue moment, but it doesn't happen.

When Jackson is done running his pink, wet (way too long and freakishly distracting) appendage all over Stiles' arm again and again, something that he endures like a champ and should be offered both congratulations and several prizes for, he blushes in uneven splotches, does a few cringing motions, and coughes once or twice before making a new stuttered apology and leaving him standing alone in the middle of a classroom. Fast like the wind. With wheels. (Or wings. Definitely wings.)

So Stiles is left alone and with an arm drenched in his slobber to ponder on why these things have to happen to him, since he's a good kid. Or at least not the very worst.

He makes a face when the thick saliva starts cooling down.

Seriously, why is this even his life.

Stiles is the kind of guy that rolls with the punches. Has been ever since his mother's death because even when people who haven't ever gone through something like this don't like to listen to this brand of sad stories, they are true. Enormous things like absence (the forever kind of absence, the one that settles deep underneath the skin and hurts forever, too, in one way or another) change people.

It molded him like this. He will go on with life, or life will go on without him.

He takes things in stride, then. He likes to think that he's prepared for most of what life can throw at him (werewolves, anybody?).

That doesn't mean that there aren't things that can still take him by surprise and slow him down for a while. At all.

Because he's human. Very much human.

The day after Jackson gets all up on Stiles' business with his tongue, school brings him a fidgety Scott. Which is the worst type of Scott. With the exception of 'in middle of an asthma attack Scott', which always had the ability to make Stiles feel too small but on the upside won't show up anymore because fur and fangs, so.

Fidgety Scott? Worst Scott.

"What's up, dude?" He asks, the very embodiment of (fake) lighthearted.

"Nothing. Much. I mean, you know..."

Stiles is used to Scott's nervous blabbering. It's never been as bad as Stiles', but it stands its own ground as painfully embarrassing to behold. Stiles raises a single eyebrow at Scott.

"Dude, calm down."

Scott toys around with the strap of his bag, Stiles closes his locker. Scott takes a deep breath and starts talking again.

"I, uh. Just..." He stops abruptly, moving his hand first to one of his jean's pockets, then catching himself mid motion and burying it in the mess of curly hair that lays on his head. Stiles follows the action, thinking of the useless inhaler that's been sitting untouched on top of Scott's desk for a while. He almost misses it when Scott starts talking again. "Stiles, man, you okay?"

It would have never occured to him that he should've been the one throwing empty threats at Jackson.

He gapes at Scott, rather unattractively.

"Man, seriously? Are we doing this now? Over a few stupid bruises?" He doesn't know why it comes out like that, aggresive and hurt, and freaked out (liar liar pants on fire, he chants to himself, cheerless); he also doesn't say 'when you've done way worse', but he doesn't think he has to. Not when his words make Scott's face transform into something grim and humorless.

Huh. So that's a surefire way of making him stop and take notice of things, tucking them into corners and casually ignoring them.

There would be satisfaction over the discovery, if he wasn't feeling so... Off.

The first bell rings, and he uses that as a perfectly acceptable excuse to just leave Scott there, wallowing in his weremisery.

Having ADHD is a funny thing. In that way that totally isn't, in any way, ever. People still think so, however. Think of his very serious issue as a comic relief, a returning gag.

Stiles knows how many shirts Rebecca Grissley owns, can probably tell where and when she's bought them if you give him a minute or two, and he hasn't ever even spoke to her. He knows Bruce-who-sits-two-places-to-the-right-in-Economics likes his pencils well sharpened, and how he color codes his notes; knows how it breaks his heart to work with someone messy or disorganized. That's why Stiles never approaches him despite the fact that his grades would really benefit from it.

He knows a lot of stupid things that aren't that relevant or awe inspiring but always seem to be so when he's got to concentrate on something else. It's a bi- very bad thing.

And that's only the less of his concerns, his inability to concentrate. That's something that with a little (lot) practice, can be tamed. It is a huge pain, but in the long run it's mostly harmless (if he doesn't let it escalate).

Other more concerning aspects of his disorder are, for example, the serious dificulties he encounters when trying to rule in his impulsivity.

Which tends to land him more often than not into dangerous situations. Or potentially dangerous ones, at the very least.

Like, say, sitting next to Danny to avoid Scott.

"Danny boy, 'sup?" He plops himself down onto the seat in the most obnoxious fashion possible, just because he is feeling a little irritated and because he can.

And when the answer doesn't come back instantly he remembers how he got into this situation in the first place, looks up at Danny's somber face and groans.

"Danny, nobody's beating me up, okay. I'm not the unsuspecting lead in a Lifetime movie. Cheer up, dude."

One corner of Danny's mouth actually twitches upwards, which he takes as a victory. But then Danny sighs and talks.

"Stiles, I talked to Jackson the other day," Which, yeah, Stiles had figured all on his own, "and you know what he told me? That he had only pushed you that once. But I've seen you turn up black and blue to lacrosse practice a few times before that."

Coach Finstock enters the room, casting them a suspicious glance.

Danny shuts up and Stiles tries to appear as innocent as he can.

Danny slips him a note a few minutes later, still appearing to pay attention to whatever Finstock is teaching them today about either Marx or Engels.

The note says, 'I don't know what's happening. I won't pressure you to tell me. But take care of yourself, okay? And I'm here if you need me.'

It maybe does things to him, reading that blatant declaration of concern from Danny, who asides from his natural kindness has no reason whatsoever to care.

Scott corners him before lunch, stopping him at the door with a shaky grip on his arm. Stiles smiles at Michelle-from-Chem (or Michelle-she-of-the-amazing-cleavage, that he makes a very conscious effort not to check out. Because he is a gentleman) who looks at them with her brows pinched as she enters the school cafeteria.

After she's out of Stiles' line of vision, his smile fades a little and he looks back at Scott. Scott is looking at him with the biggest saddest puppy eyes Stiles has ever seen, and is still holding his right arm with a loose, insecure hold that tugs at his heartstrings. Unfair.

"I'm sorry, Stiles."

'Really, so unfair' he thinks, as the fight drains right out of him. He gets Scott in a headlock and says, "yeah, watever dude."

Scott gets him curly fries and as far as Stiles is concerned, that's it.

And, really, what had all this been about? Scott dismissing his safety before? Or now? Or ignoring for a good long while that he'd almost killed Stiles a few times? Because Stiles had thought he was well over that. Water under the bridge, for both of them.

Jackson is stiff during the entire practice, gets yelled at least twice by coach Finstock. Scott ignores him, but lands a blow or two that are harder than necessary. Danny is giving him the cold shoulder, too, apparently. Stiles tries not to care. The fact that Jackson is remorseful for being the equivalent of a jerk pumped up on steroids is not Stiles' fault.


	3. Chapter 3

When he gets home he is tired as hell and all he really wants is to lose a few braincells to his XBOX. So, of course, when he gets to his room Derek's there.

And of course, Stiles has a few years scared off of him. But that's alright, really, don't worry. He hadn't really been that fond of the idea of being able to meet his grandchildren.

"Jesus Christ! Damn! Derek, man, really. Doors. And not being one of those creepy stalkerish things that go bump in the night. This isn't Twilight. And, dude, do you even know what the concept of private property is?" He clutches at his chest with one hand, while he throws his bag to the floor with the other. "But doors, mainly. I mean, man, what if my father had been home?"

Derek makes a noncommittal grunt from where he's comfortably sprawled over Stiles' bed. He glances at Stiles with a face that's so carefully blank that it could mean anything from 'you are absolutely right, how can I exist without you to point my many errors' to 'gurl, please.'

Just thinking about Derek saying 'gurl, please.' is enough to break his brain and give him a headache.

"Derek, you are giving me a headache."

"No, you are giving yourself a headache." He rises from the bed and walks up to him.

Stiles closes his bedroom door and sags against it, tries to think about ponies. Or about the reproductive life of snails. Such interesting creatures.

Tries to occupy his mind in anything other than the fact that one second Derek is lifting himself from Stiles' bed and the other he's standing right in front of him, eyes affixed to his with a clear determination.

Stiles knows what this is about, of course he freaking knows. Because he is the smart one, the master mind (after Lydia, that is). And because of course Jackson would've had a meltdown with his godforsaken Alpha about his many guilty-jerk feels, too. But he'll be damned if he is the one that brings the topic up.

"Did you know that Apple Snails and periwinkles are the only types of snails that still have a separate male and female species?"

"Did you know that I'm not above ripping your throat out-"

"-with your teeth. I know, yes." Derek's lips turn the tiniest bit upwards. Stiles gasps. "Man, man, you're trying to be funny. What's taken over you?"

Derek shrugs, still casually invading Stiles' personal bubble.

"We are talking about this." Derek says, then.

'Talking about it' is going really well.

Yeah, right.

It starts like this: Stiles worms his way around Derek, throws himself face first onto the bed in a ball of flaily limbs, Derek sits on his desk chair. And they just stay like that for, what? Fifteen minutes?

Yes, fiteen. Sixteen, maybe.

He lifts his head a little from his pillow to say, loudly and dripping in a healthy dose of sarcasm: "Wow, Derek, this is such a high quality conversation. It should be recorded, kept for posterity."

"Jackson is sorry. And so is Scott." Is Derek's answer. He's sporting his best 'I'm the Alpha here so listen' look. Not that it differs much from all his other facial expressions. Stiles is just a pro at reading him by now. "Jackson, in particular is quite worked up."

"Jackson is an ass and he licked my arm. Repeteadly. With his disconcertingly long weretongue." he puts his head back on the pillow but rearranges his body to be able to look at Derek with the minimum effort.

Derek stiffens a bit at that comment, mouth in a thin line.

"Are you honestly gonna be a sourwolf over my wanting to not be covered in your damn beta's spit?"

"Omega."

"Jackson's an omega? Seriously?" That's, well, that's certainly enough to pique his natural curiosity. "I thought that if you guys had an omega it would be me."

Derek's eyes flash red at his comment.

"Okay, okay. Not asking any more questions. Jeez, buddy, anger management issues. So many of them."

"Stiles. Shut up."

He does. Not because he has to, but because Derek doesn't sound pissed off. He sounds...

"Stiles,"

He sounds a little pained. Like whatever he's trying to get out is physically hurting him in some way.

"Look, Derek. Not that this isn't lovely, but my dad-"

"-won't be home early. Don't try to lie to a werewolf, Stiles. You are smarter than that." A second or two pass, then he speaks again, "You are a beta. Betas show support for their Alphas and help enforcing the pack structure."

Stiles can tell that Derek's withholding information, that there's more that for whatever strange reason he thinks Stiles is not supposed to know.

"Okay." He flexes his fingers against the bed covers. Closes his eyes for a little while, feeling a compressing pain envolving his skull. Headaches. Derek, and this tension that's always present with them and they never really manage to get around, always give him headaches.

The bed dips under the weight of someby else. A warm hand finds Stiles' forehead.

Derek's warm hand.

Stiles maybe cranes his neck a little to get more of that warmth.

"You're not our punching bag. Or our stress relief. Or whatever the fuck you've come up with to keep letting this happen." Stiles feels cold rage at those words, but when he opens his eyes and goes to retaliate the hand on his forehead moves to cover his mouth.

Stiles is very tempted to pull a Jackson and get Derek's hand acquainted with his drool.

"When this happens it's not because we don't care. It's because we are idiots."

At Stiles' furious gaze, Derek's face softens. Which might or might not make Stiles calm down a bit (he doesn't see nearly enough of Derek like that, connected to his human side).

"You fit so seamlessly with the idea of pack. Better than Jackson or Scott, or even Lydia. Sometimes we just forget how human you are. " Derek doesn't use the word 'frail', for which he is entirely grateful. But it still sounds too much like that. Too much like 'you're so easy to break, we don't know how to play with you.'

"That doesn't mean that we should get away with it. You ought to tells us these things. We'll be more careful, try to better watch ourselves. But you still gotta do what you do best and call us on our shit when we fall short of the mark."

Derek's hand leavis mouth, Stiles flicks his tongue over his lower lip. Derek's eyes follow the movement closely.

"So you're basically telling me that I'm weak and you don't know how to deal with that, and that all this is my fault for not screaming like a little girl every time you get a little rough?"

"Don't be deliberately obtuse." Derek's eyes remain glued to Stiles' lips for a second or two, before going back to his eyes, holding him still with the sheer force of his intense gaze. "You know that's not what I meant. This is not your fault, I know we are responsible for this. And you are strong. We all think you are strong. I think you're strong."

The hand that had been on his forehead reaches out tentatively for one of his own, resting half on top of it, half next to it. It's only then that he notices how close to him Derek's sitting.

Tension. It's always been there with them, but now it feels overbearing. He groans, not sure if he is ready for this. Not sure if he's ready for whatever this is that they've been slowly inching up to, on top of everything else.

"I can smell your nerves."

His life. What the hell.

"And that's not all pretty freaking creepy, dude. Not at all. Totally something to throw out there."

The hand half resting on top of his shifts until their fingers are tangled. The body next to his moves around until they are touching the tiniest bit.

"Stiles, we can deal with one thing at a time."

He nods, knowing that he's agreeing to a lot more than he can imagine. But that's okay.

He may not be ready for this to be his life, sometimes, but he wouldn't want to change it either.

For the most part.

"You should still work on the door thing. And the creepin'. And Jackson's boundary issues."

"I can still rip your throat out with my teeth."

Their hands stay clasped, tight, warm.


End file.
